


I think I'll stay

by miss_Carrot



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_Carrot/pseuds/miss_Carrot
Summary: Five times Baze’s persistent neighbour invites himself over, and one time he invites Baze instead.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KyberHearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/gifts).



> For KyberHearts – I hope that you have as much fun reading it as I had with writing. May the Force of others be with you!
> 
> Also, as always, huge thanks to my beta.

1.

Be a gentleman, they say. Help others, they say, then you will have a good night's sleep and good karma aplenty.

Liars, every single one of them.

The thing is - Baze just wanted to be civil. He saw this new guy who just moved into the flat next door struggling with a stack of boxes and a huge geranium in a clay pot and offered his help. That was the decent thing to do, but that's it. Before the guy got the chance to thank him or introduce himself, Baze performed a tactical retreat. Being the friendly neighbour was never part of the plan.

The guy doesn't seem to realise that though. He keeps throwing cheerful _Hellos!_ , Force-blessings, and wide smiles in Baze's general direction, undeterred by the grumbling he gets in response. He tries to start conversations when they meet in the hall, but Baze somehow is always in a hurry. Baze gets by using his well-honed set of non-committal grunts and avoiding eye contact, and hopes that the new guy gets bored soon.

Until one evening Baze's doorbell rings and there's the guy standing on the threshold with a clay teapot in his hands and a grin plastered to his face.

"Hello," he says, and Baze nods, shifting uncomfortably.

There's a long pause, during which he makes eye contact, or rather: actually looks in the guy's face. There's white film over his eyes, and suddenly a lot of weird things start to make sense, like the staff the guy carries almost everywhere, even though he's around Baze's age and seems physically fit.

Baze shifts again, and clears his throat.

"Hi," he says in the most non-committal fashion he can muster. The only good thing is that the guy cannot see the colour rising on his face. "You need anything?"

"Yes, actually." The guy lifts his teapot and shrugs. "My stove's broken and I'll have it fixed tomorrow, but I'd really need to boil some water for my tea. Could I use your stove maybe?"

Baze's initial instincts is to say no - it seems like crossing into the friendly neighbour territory, and he doesn't want that - but he curbs it. It's not like the guy has much choice. There are two other flats in this part of the hall. One of them is occupied by three students and a dog, and Baze is certain that using their kitchen is a serious bio-hazard. The other one is a dwelling of the Garfields, parents of baby twins, who can turn every conversation into a lengthy monologue about infants and their poops. Forcing a blind guy to go to either of these seems inhumane, even by Baze's standards. Besides, it's only water.

"Yeah," he says in a monotone. "Sure." He takes a step back and waves his hands, but then remembers himself. "Uh, come in."

He goes to the kitchen and pours water in the electric kettle, sighing heavily. Some interaction seems inevitable at the moment, which makes him tense and stressed. And to think that the evening started so well: just him, a book, and a radio humming in the background. Well, shit, he thinks and walks into his living room. Somehow the guy made it to the only plant in Baze's apartment, a large friendship tree, and now he faces it with a frown.

"I never had the chance to introduce myself." He turns to Baze and smirks, as if he senses Baze's discomfort. Well, if he fishes for an apology, he's going to be disappointed. "I'm Chirrut Îmwe, and I wanted to thank you for helping me out the other day."

Baze shakes the proffered hand and mutters that it's fine, and luckily that's when the kettle pings.

"The water's just boiled," he says. The guy - Chirrut - looks up at him, and Baze wonders briefly if his relief is audible in his voice. "Do you want me to, uh, to make the tea?"

"No, not yet! It's green tea, you can't brew it with boiling water." Chirrut sends a small smile somewhere left of Baze's head. "If you could just pour some aside to cool down?"

"Or I could - bring you the tea. Later," Baze tries. He doesn't want this man here, in his place, near his friendship tree. Well, he never wants anyone here, but this - Chirrut - is particularly unsettling. It's hard to say why. "So you don't have to wait."

"Nah, I think I'll stay and wait, if you don't mind." Chirrut's smile widens, like he knows exactly that Baze does mind. But before Baze can do anything about it, Chirrut carefully reaches out towards the friendship tree, his expression softening. "Besides, I would like to get to know this little friend. May I?"

There is something oddly endearing in the gesture, and Baze nods. He catches himself a second later.

"Yeah," he says, "sure."

He watches Chirrut's hands descending slowly on the plant, examining the thick round leaves and rough stem. The care with which he touches the friendship tree is surprising, but very welcome. Only then Baze realizes that the man could have knocked it over or damage in any other way - he was blind, for heaven's sake. Funny how this thought haven't even occurred to Baze earlier.

"It's beautiful," Chirrut says finally, giving the leaves the last gentle brush. "And obviously well loved."

And it's true. The friendship tree is the only living being that stays at his side no matter what. He got the seedling as a good-luck gift years ago, and while it doesn't actually bring him luck, it serves as a faithful companion. Baze will never admit it to anyone, ever, but he talks to the friendship tree sometimes.

Judging by the expression on Chirrut's face, the man already knows, somehow. Maybe that's why his presence is so unsettling. Baze doesn't want to dwell on that; he just wants to be left alone.

He pours the water and prepares the tea, and presses the teapot in Chirrut's hands.

"See you around," Chirrut says as he leaves, and he's smirking.

The joke catches on to Baze only a few moments later, when he's back in his armchair, trying to focus on his book. The space around him seems surprisingly empty, and the friendship tree - surprisingly present.

Of course, no good deed of his ever goes unpunished.

"Well, shit," he says aloud, but he has the notion that the friendship tree disagrees.

2.

It becomes much more difficult to ignore his new neighbour after that little tea party. Baze actually makes himself say hello first sometimes, and doesn't flee at the sound of the staff tapping the floor anymore. They don't talk much - well, Baze doesn't - but he doesn't feel like he needs to avoid the man at all costs either. Chirrut seems to appreciate it too, as far as Baze can tell. He talks a lot, sure, but he doesn't expect Baze to keep up with him and he doesn't ask bothersome questions. They complain together at the landlord, or share hushed stories about the Garfields and their offspring.

"Actually it's quite nice", Baze says one day to his friendship tree. He pays more attention to it recently, and sometimes he even brushes the leaves very carefully. His fingers are wide and calloused, and nothing like Chirrut's. It's funny that he remembers that - it would be embarrassing if he dwelt on it, so he doesn't.

Until Chirrut visits him again, that is.

This time he doesn't have his staff with him; instead he carries a plastic basket full of clothes. There's also a mighty frown on his face which looks unnatural on him, as far as Baze can tell.

"I need your help again, I'm afraid," he says by way of a greeting. "If you have a moment, that is."

"I do." Baze says and reaches out to grab the basket. He stops himself in the last moment. "Do you need me to carry it somewhere?"

"What? No," Chirrut replies with a huff of suppressed laughter. It doesn't sound mean, but Baze still stiffens for a moment, expecting a jab that never comes. "It's just - Jyn found this new laundry place with huge discounts for the new clients, and she took my laundry with hers, which was very nice of her. But they left me the the clothes like this." He lifts the basket slightly, but there's nothing unusual with it or its contents. There's a stack of shirts and other garments, ironed and folded neatly. Baze shifts and clears his throat, unsure what to say. "I have no idea what's what," Chirrut adds, and his frown lifts a little. "I know what's in there, but I can't tell one shirt from the other, you know? And now Jyn's away, and the other kids are too, which is as it should be on a Friday evening, but I have no one to help me sort through it. Unless you can help me?"

"Yes," Baze says with relief, finally understanding the issue at hand. He takes a step back. "Come on in."

"Thank the Force."

As Chirrut walks in in slow, careful steps, Baze takes a quick look at his living room. There isn't much clutter, but he picks up a few random objects and makes space on the table for the laundry basket. All the while he wonders who Jyn is and which kids Chirrut was talking about, but then he realises he means the students renting the flat next to Chirrut. Of course Chirrut would befriend them, like he did with Baze - he seems just the type. The thought makes Baze irritated though he cannot pinpoint why.

"Let me put it on the table," he says, reaching for the basket again. Chirrut stops, nods, and hands him the basket. "There's a couch to your left."

He casts a quick look at the couch to make sure that no pieces of his own clothing are left there. He barely uses it for anything else than a temporary wardrobe - it's a legacy of the previous inhabitants of the flat and while he doesn't need it, it seems a waste to throw out a relatively new piece of furniture. He should have donated it to some shelter ages ago but never got around to do it. Now though he's glad he didn't; he wouldn't want to share his armchair, and besides Chirrut looks quite comfortable among all the pillows. He looks like he belongs on the couch, Baze thinks, and shakes his head immediately.

Clearly his old age is catching up with him today.

"What do we do now?" he asks, clearing his throat again. Chirrut lifts his head and smiles at Baze's left ear.

"You tell me the colour and the pattern, and give me the item," he explains. "I'll do the rest. If you could just pass me the hangers?"

Baze does as he's asked, even if it feels terribly awkward to do so. The clothes - shirts, mostly - smell faintly of washing detergent; with the way they are ironed and folded they look impersonal, like wares in a shop. Still, there is something intrusive about going through Chirrut's wardrobe like this. He knows now that most of Chirrut's shirts are black or otherwise dark, but almost all of them have a colourful accent: buttons or cuffs, or inside of the collar. He didn't pay any attention to that before, and normally he wouldn't, but now, as he struggles to describe them to Chirrut, it seems important, even though he cannot understand why. He voices that last thought before he can stop himself, and Chirrut laughs.

"I wasn't always blind, you know," he says. The frown is all but gone from his face; he seems absolutely content to sit on Baze's couch and arrange shirts on hangers. "And it feels good to know that I look nice. Even if I can't wink at myself in the mirror anymore."

Chirrut winks at Baze instead. It feels weird - a good kind of weird, but still he's happy that Chirrut actually cannot see him. His cheeks feel much warmer that they normally would. For a moment Chirrut looks like he wants to say something more on the topic of good looks, but he decides against that, which is a relief. Not that Baze doesn't understand his point. With looks like Chirrut's he would probably care about his outfits too.

The system that Chirrut uses is both simple and complicated - it includes some folding, leaving some buttons open in a sequence meant for the given shirt only, wrapping rubber bands around the hangers, and so on. Baze doesn't even try to grasp it; he watches Chirrut's hands moving over the clothing with confidence and care. It's different than how he touched the friendship tree, but it's still mesmerizing.

"It's the last shirt," he says to break this train of thoughts. "It's black with Mandarin collar, and gray pocket lining on the front."

He peers into the basket; there are two pairs of pants and some small items left inside. Baze hopes that they won't have to sort through these too, or he might reach the levels of awkwardness heretofore unknown. Luckily, Chirrut places the last shirt at the top of the stack, having rearranged its buttons, and smiles.

"Thank you so much, I'll handle the rest myself. Really, I owe you one," he adds, and it sounds like he means it.

Baze is unsure what to do with this information. He's even less sure of what to do with the fact that he just invited a relative stranger to his home, spent half an hour sorting through the stranger's laundry, and he doesn't mind the company in the slightest. This confusion is the only thing he can blame for what happens next.

"It's fine," he says, and then, somehow, he blurts out: "You can now go and dress to slay. Or break hearts. Or, you know. The usual."

The moment the words leave his mouth, Baze wants to bite his own tongue off. He has no idea what possessed him to babble such things. That's why he should stay away from other people and refrain from talking to them too much - he inevitably makes an idiot of himself, and people stare at him, and -

And Chirrut laughs, a short, surprised sound. Baze looks everywhere but at him - it's a habit hard to shake off - but he could swear there's a hint of colour on Chirrut's cheeks.

"Do you think I should?" Chirrut asks, and winks at him again, grinning. It's a joke, it surely is - what else could it be? - but it doesn't seem to be at his expense. It's different, and that's what makes Baze to take in a calming breath and continue.

"You could," he offers, because that's what people do, right? Besides, it's true. And then, when nothing dramatic happens, he barrels on. "Or you could stay - I mean, for tea. Would you like some tea? I don't have green, but..." he trails off, trying to focus on the contents of his cupboard. He cannot make himself look at Chirrut's face. Luckily, Chirrut doesn't leave him hanging.

"Sure, I'll stay if you will have me," he says, and he seems genuinely happy.

Baze is both relieved and surprised. He makes a beeline to the kitchen before he can embarrass himself even more, and puts the kettle on. Only then does the situation catch up with him. All this friendliness, being good neighbour, inviting people over - it's not what he usually does. It's not what he does, period. He's just the old grouch living alone, fixing cars by daylight and holing himself up in his flat at nights. Social life is never part of his schedule, because other people are just too confusing to handle, and yet.

When he re-enters the living room with the teapot in one hand and two mugs in the other, Chirrut is hovering over his friendship tree again. Baze could swear he mutters something to it, but stops as soon as he hears the footsteps. It should probably freak him out, but Baze finds it rather cute. It's reassuring to know that he's not the only one talking to plants.

"It's just regular black," he says as he puts his utensils on the table.

Chirrut nods, walks over to the table, and accepts the mug. He wraps his fingers around it and Baze looks away, even though it's just an ordinary gesture.

"You are a piece of work, you know," Chirrut says suddenly, seemingly to his mug. Baze startles and wants to defend himself, but he stifles the instinct. "You invite me over for tea, spend your evening with me folding my laundry, but you wouldn't even tell me your name." He giggles and shakes his head, like it's a neat joke. Maybe it is, but Baze frantically tries to remember if he introduced himself to Chirrut, and can't.

"It's-"

"Baze Malbus, I know," Chirrut interrupts him with a smile. "The kids told me. They also told me that you are a local hero, saving poor students from their evil, corrupted landlords," he adds, and waves his hands around him in an approximation of a large human silhouette. "Huge, brooding and looming like Batman, but for real, man!" he says in a mock-excited tone, which sounds somehow familiar. "To quote the original source."

"It's not the kids' fault that the piping broke," Baze mutters, like it's relevant at all. He has no idea what else he's supposed to say though. "It rusted away ages ago. And the landlord was being a dick, I mean -"

"Isn't he always?" Chirrut asks, and sips his tea. He seems so unfazed by Baze's babbling or by his lack of manners that it calms him down a little. The fact that they are about to bitch about their landlord helps too - it's a familiar territory, and Baze has a new story to tell after meeting the guy last week.

Chirrut laughs in all the right moments as Baze tells it, shares some ideas of practical jokes they could pull on the landlord with the help of the students, and then leaves with his basket and his stack of clothes. When he turns at the threshold to thank Baze again, he looks directly into Baze's eyes, or at least it seems he does. It makes Baze's cheeks colour up again for no reason whatsoever, but it feels - nice.

He tells as much to the friendship tree as soon as he closes the door.

3.

There are only two explanations to Baze's current situation: either he's going mad, or Chirrut really is everywhere. They meet in the hall, where they discuss the deterioration of the stairwell and the new doughnut shop that opened down the street recently and floods their mailboxes with glittered leaflets (And their doughnuts are nothing to write home about, as Chirrut tells him with a disgusted frown). They bump into each other in the small park across the street and talk at length about saving bees, various methods of serving aubergines, and the music they listened to as teenagers (it  turns out that Chirrut was the cool kid who always knew what was in, and he doesn't counter Baze's suggestion that he would lock Baze in a locker if they went to the same school).

They even see each other in the local shrine of the Force - well, sort of. Baze doesn't really go to pray there - he just lurks at the outskirts during the service from time to time, drawn by the old comfort and ritual more than devotion. Chirrut, on the other hand, seems to be perfectly at home there; Baze watches him from afar with a weird mixture of content and envy. He feels like a creep capitalizing on Chirrut's blindness like that, but he still stays till the end of the service. It's heartwarming to look at someone so focused at the rituals - it reminds Baze on his youth - but it's even better to watch Chirrut talk to people afterwards, all soft hand gestures and warm smiles. Baze would stay longer, but his presence draws attention of one of the priests, and he isn't ready for another talk about joining the congregation of the Force followers - not yet, anyways - so he leaves with only a curt nod at the priest. But before he makes it through the first street crossing, he hears someone calling him by his name.

"Baze, would you just wait a second," Chirrut says, catching up with him.

"Uh, hi." Baze clears his throat, shifting from foot to foot. He probably shouldn't be surprised, but he is anyway. Before he can decide what to say next, words tumble out of his mouth unbidden. "I didn't think you'll find me here."

"Yes, well," Chirrut says with a shrug, "Our priest told me that there was this nice man who seemed to be waiting for me, so here I am."

The traffic light turns to green and starts beeping. Baze reaches out to grab Chirrut's arm to help him through the street, but stops himself just in time.

"He didn't say that," he counters, as they reach the pavement on the other side. Chirrut lifts his face to Baze and smiles - a wide, brilliant thing. It makes his gums show, and the wrinkles in his eye corners deepen, and Baze could stare at it for the remainder of the afternoon.

Oops.

"No, actually he was worried that I am followed by a stalker and offered me a ride home."

"That's more like it," Baze offers with a snort, to cover his embarrassment. Chirrut shakes his head, but doesn't reply to that, which is unusual. Normally he makes a joke - a bad one, in most cases - to have the last word. Baze didn't even realise that earlier, but now the absence of it makes him wonder.

They stay silent until they reach the park in their neighbourhood. Chirrut stops in front of a bench which they sat on once, talking about balcony gardens. Baze stops too and clears his throat, unsure what to make of Chirrut's suddenly solemn expression. Not that it doesn't look good on him - with his shoulders pushed back and his palms folded neatly in front of him he is so smart and fierce, and appealing, and -

And since when does Baze notice such things?

"I was wondering," Chirrut says slowly, and Baze forces himself to focus on the words, "if you would like to come over on Friday evening. I'm having a small get-together and I'd be happy to see you there."

"Would you now," Baze mutters, just to make Chirrut smile. He knows by now that catching on the sight-puns never fails to accomplish that. "What kind of a get-together?"

"Nothing fancy, just some friends, lots of salads, and most probably a cake. It's a birthday party after all," he adds with a shrug.

"A birthday party? How old are you exactly?"

It's probably not the nicest question, but it's out of Baze's mouth before he can ever process the thought fully. He stopped having birthday parties somewhere in his junior high - he was a big boy already, his parents decided. Having one now seems rather ridiculous. Chirrut doesn't mind his outburst though; the smile on his face turns a little sly instead.

"You'd need to come over if you want to know," he teases. He must be teasing, Baze thinks, what else would it be? And what should he do in reply to that? "I'd need someone trusted to count the candles before I blow them."

"I can't," Baze blurts out without a conscious thought. He feels his ears and his cheeks go warm, and he ducks his head even though Chirrut cannot see him. At the moment it's a blessing. "I mean - I would like to - it's very nice of you to invite me," he adds quickly, addressing Chirrut's shoes. "But I'm not good with people, and parties, and - I get stressed. I'd be a grump, and I'd spoil your party, and -"

"Hey," Chirrut interrupts, and Baze looks at him to see him smiling still. It's not as teasing as before, but it's still friendly. "It's fine, really. Parties are supposed to be fun, not a chore."

"I didn't mean it like that," Baze huffs, irritated with himself. Explaining these things to others has never been easy, but with Chirrut it's even harder. The last thing he wants is to be judged and found lacking. But Chirrut doesn't seem to be judging - he reaches out in Baze's general direction instead and brushes his arm with his fingers. It's unsettling, to say the least.

"I know," he says. "I get it, I do. If you want to keep our little chats private, it's fine by me," he adds with a grin and a wink aimed somewhere above Baze's left ear. "And if you change your mind, my invitation still stands."

"Thank you," Baze mutters, following Chirrut as they resume their walk home.

He knows he made the right choice. Parties in general are a nightmare, and the thought about mingling with Chirrut's friends, no doubt as smart and sharp-witted as Chirrut himself, makes him cringe internally at his own lack of social graces. But still, now that he knows about the birthday, he wants to celebrate the occasion.

"It's just a nice thing to do," he explains to the friendship tree, slowly pouring water on the soil. "It's what friends do."

And they're friends now, Baze muses, they aren't just acquaintances or simply neighbours anymore. Acquaintances don't share embarrassing childhood stories or invite each other to birthdays, right?

_But friends_ , replies a small voice in his head, one that Baze does his best to silence, _friends don't memorize the sound of steps on the hall, and don't wait eagerly for a knock at the door. Friends don't colour up thinking about smiles and hands and shoulders. Friends don't notice all these tiny things and don't dissect each conversation long into the night._

Well, shit, Baze thinks to himself when he catches himself in the middle of an internal rant. It doesn't bode well.

He starts planning the birthday gift mostly to keep these uncomfortable thoughts at bay. There aren't many ideas to start with, but he settles for a bush of lavender in a pot made out of partially glazed clay. The flowers are pretty, but more importantly they're pleasant to touch, and the smell is strong, but not overwhelming. And then there is the varying texture of the flower pot, which itself took almost an hour to choose.

Baze is very proud of his gift until Friday early afternoon. When he hears a ruckus in the hall and peeks through his spyhole, he sees a tree climbing up the stairs. After a closer inspection it turns out to be a huge ficus, dragged and pushed in turns by the three students living down the hall. Baze comes to help them more out of curiosity than anything else.

"What are you doing with it?" he asks, holding the plant up so the boys can fold its branches and make it fit through the turn of the stairwell. One of the boys stays silent and pretends he has no idea what Baze is talking about; the other wrings his hands, clearly stressed.

"It's none of your business," hisses the girl, her face red from extortion. Jyn, Baze remembers suddenly. "We can have a fucking tree if we want, it's not illegal. Sir," she adds, without much conviction in her tone.

"Jyn," the stressed boy chides quietly. "He is not our landlord. He helped us with that bastard. He's nice."

"Yeah, well," she concedes. "It's a gift," she inclines her head at Chirrut's door. "For the professor."

"A gift," Baze repeats, and almost drops the ficus. Luckily, it makes the rest of the branches bend just so and the plant comes free, to the relief of everyone involved. "It's, uh - a nice gift. And huge," he adds, before he can stop himself.

"Yeah, well, it was on sale," the quiet boy speaks for the first time, and crosses his arms in front of him, suddenly defensive. "And the professor is cool, he always helps us out, so he deserves a huge nice tree. I just hope it's not infested with some fucking - uh, with worms, or germs, or whatever makes plants die," he adds as an afterthought.

"It looks healthy," Baze offers, leaving the ficus at the students' doorstep. Their dog is waiting there, wearing the most judgmental expression Baze ever saw on any living creature. It growls at the ficus, clearly displeased at its presence. Baze can't say he disagrees.

The students invite him for a thank-you beer and ask if they're going to see him at the party today, and he says no to both. He locks himself up in his flat and looks at the lavender bush, which seems ridiculously small and ordinary compared to the ficus.

"It won't do to give such an insignificant gift", he tells the friendship tree, rubbing his forehead. "It's better not to give anything at all."

Baze can hear it when the party starts - it's not very loud, but music, voices, and laughter are perfectly audible through the wall. He wonders if Chirrut is having fun, and if he likes the ficus. It was a good decision not to go there, he knows - it would be a torment - but sitting here and wondering isn't much better either.

What he doesn't expect is the party coming to him the next day. He's cleaning the microwave from the crumbs and stains that accumulated there since forever when his doorbell rings. His heart does a weird flip as he gets up and wipes his hands at the back of his sweatpants. Chirrut is standing at his doorstep with a stack of tupperware containers in a bag and a grin on his face.

"I need you to save me," he says in an overly dramatic tone. "Or I'll eat all this food myself and explode. It's all delicious," he adds, when Baze doesn't manage to reply. "There's an onion quiche, and a lovely sponge cake, and an exotic salad with capers - do you like capers?"

"Yeah," Baze says, even though he doesn't actually have an opinion on capers. He takes a step back on autopilot, and Chirrut enters his flat without missing a beat. Baze files this observation away to dissect later in the night. "I mean - it's nice of you, but I can't eat your food."

"Nonsense," Chirrut scoffs, feeling the way to the couch with his staff and putting the bag with the tupperware on the table. "It's fine that you don't like parties, but you shouldn't miss out on the caper salad."

"Fine. I'll make us some tea - uh, if you want, that is, if you have other plans, then..."

"No, I'll stay for the tea, thank you," Chirrut says, and probably it's Baze's imagination - what else would it be? - but his smile grows both wider and softer as he says that.

Baze prepares plates and forks, and takes out the green tea he bought recently. It seemed to be a good idea at that time, but now it feels just awkward, like trying too much. He doesn't even know if Chirrut drinks regular green tea, like this one, or some fancy blend. He has little choice but to continue now though, even if he cringes inwardly at his own stupidity. Chirrut doesn't call him out on that, however - he accepts his tea without any comment and focuses on putting salad on the plates. The caper salad is indeed delicious, and so is the other salad and quiche and cake. For a person who claimed to be full to the point of bursting, Chirrut puts away a lot of food and Baze tells him so.

"Well," he replies, munching on the crust of the quiche. "That's the only good thing about birthdays, it keeps your mind away from the fleeing of time and impeding decay."

"Food and gifts," Baze mutters, before Chirrut can launch into a lecture about social conventions and rites of passage. It happened once or twice and he would love to listen to another rant, even if it means hours of googling afterwards to make sure he understands everything Chirrut says. But he wants to have the gifts sorted out first. He wouldn't go and bother Chirrut with his ridiculous lavender bush on his own, but now it seemed the only right thing to do. Instead of giving Chirrut the plant like any normal person would do though, he hears his own voice asking: "And how did you like the ficus?"

"I - oh, how do you know about it?" It may be Baze's imagination at work again, but Chirrut seems slightly abashed. "It's lovely, the kids shouldn't have done this and I probably shouldn't accept it, but it's such a fine plant. I couldn't resist, I'm a weak man. But they promised they won't buy me anything that big anymore, and we won't speak about the incident again."

"The incident?" Baze asks, curious despite himself.

Chirrut giggles like he's fifteen and not like fifty, and tells him a story on how "the kids" got into trouble during a protest at the university and he - a humble professor of philosophy, he says with a smirk that is anything but humble - helped them out during the scuffle and then defended them in front of the Faculty Council. The story includes some punching, some empowering speeches thrown in at random, a lot of corny one-liners, and numerous references to the Force. Baze would dismiss it easily three months ago, but now, as he knows Chirrut better, he suspects that the story is true, one-liners and punching included.

The ficus and the camaraderie between Chirrut and the students make much more sense now.

"I freaked out a little when I discovered that they live next door," Chirrut admits, but then he shrugs. "But I don't teach any of them actually, and they're nice kids, so I don't really care. And the ficus is just beautiful."

"It is," Baze admits, and downs the rest of his tea as if it could give him courage. "I got you something too," he manages finally. "It's just a small thing - nothing like the ficus - and you don't have to accept it if you don't like it - but I just thought..." he forces his mouth to stop babbling, takes the lavender bush from the windowsill and puts it on the table, near Chirrut's hands. "I, uh, I hope you'll like it. Well. Happy birthday," he finishes, and takes a breath to calm himself down.

Chirrut reaches out to the flower pot and brushes it gently with his fingers. Slowly he examines the flowers, the thin hairy leaves, and then the glazed and unglazed side of the pot. He does it in complete silence, brows furrowed in concentration. The minutes pass, and suddenly Baze cannot take it anymore.

"It's just lavender, you know, it's a plain flower, but it's - it's supposed to be easy to care for, you can just dump it on the balcony or wherever, or if you don't like it I can -"

"Baze," Chirrut cuts him off, and reaches out to brush his arm again. He doesn't take away his hand this time, and Baze doesn't dare move. "Please, stop for a moment. It's beautiful, really - it's a rare occasion when I don't know what to say, but now..." Chirrut shakes his head. "You put a lot of thought into this, didn't you. It's a very sensory plant."

"I - yeah, it smells nice and it's so fuzzy, and..." Baze trails off, cringing inwardly. Congratulations, genius, he thinks to himself, that's exactly what _sensory plant_ means. "I'm glad you like it."

"I do," Chirrut says, and he looks like he truly means it. He gives Baze's arm a little squeeze and Baze's heart makes another flip, the traitorous thing. "I don't think I've ever received such a thoughtful gift. Thank you, my friend."

Baze grunts something to cover his embarrassment, but he smiles, and he feels something warm glowing inside him. They are friends, and that's good, and he's happy.

Isn't he?

4.

So the thing is - Chirrut is still everywhere and they continue bumping into each other around the house, but that's not enough anymore. More than once Baze finds himself doctoring the "accidental" meetings, which he berates himself about later on. It's immature - childish, even - and he should have grown out of this while still in his teens. But he never met someone like Chirrut while in his teens. He never met someone like that, period. This is the shit everyone gets so excited about, Baze thinks to himself in the evenings when he's too tired after the day at the workshop to do anything productive. This is how you feel when you like-like somebody.

"That's unfair," he tells the friendship tree one evening, when he feels particularly low. "I should have gone through all this along with everyone, and not, like, forty years later. Being the odd one was terrible then, and it's even worse now."

The only bright side Baze can find is that he is too distressed by the sole fact of - of liking Chirrut - that he can't bother to freak out about the fact that Chirrut is a man.

"It's not like anything is going to happen," he explains to the friendship tree. "I'll just fuck up everything if I try asking him out, you know." And he believes it, he really does, but it doesn't stop him from developing improbable scenarios in his head. His imagination - by daylight, at least - goes as wild as inviting Chirrut over for tea, holding his hand, and maybe stealing a kiss or two. Baze finds his belatedly awoken teenage self deeply embarrassing.

And the worst thing is that he is almost certain that it shows. He stumbles and blabbers more and Chirrut keeps asking him if everything is okay, which is humiliating and doesn't help at all. The students notice his foolishness too - they got friendly after the ficus incident and Baze didn't have the energy to discourage them, so now he knows their names, their majors, and way more details about their personal life that he is comfortable with. But it means that the kids are around much more frequently than before and they watch him. He can swear that Cassian and his dog kept shooting him meaningful stares that one time when they met Chirrut in the hall and discussed the dreadful state of the pavement. And he's certain that Bodhi interrupting their chat about engines and vanishing into the thin air from the yard at the first sight of Chirrut carrying grocery bags was no accident either. It's unnerving, to say the least - mostly the fact that the kids seem to treat this whole debacle as a normal thing. As if it's okay for Baze, a lonely grump of fifty and three years, to like-like someone - and someone like Chirrut at that.

That's embarrassing. Especially the _like-like_ part. He cannot bring himself to call it anything else though.

He's so occupied with reprimanding himself internally that he almost crashes into Jyn in the main hall of the building. She hangs up a note about a celebration party planned for Saturday night.

"It will be loud," she says and lifts her chin, glaring at him. "And there will be plenty of booze."

"That's the point, I suppose," Baze replies with a shrug. That earns him a nod and a minute twitch of her lips, not quite a smile.

"You're a decent guy, you know, for a square," she offers, and for a moment she looks like she might add something else but doesn't. Baze feels relief at that for no clear reason, since he forgets about the party as soon as he leaves the hall.

He is reminded about it on Saturday though. True to Jyn's warning, the party is loud. There seems to be more people there than the tiny apartment could possibly accommodate. The music is blasting from the speakers at the full capacity and people sing over it, and there is someone - Bodhi, Baze realizes after quite a long time - triumphantly yelling _I am the pilot!_ at random intervals. Baze remembers Bodhi mumbling something about exams for piloting license; he has to congratulate the kid once he sobers up.

Suddenly his doorbell rings, and Baze jumps in his seat and finds himself at the door before the sound ceased. Chirrut is waiting at his threshold with a laptop under his arm and a pained expression on his face. He starts to say something but the noise is too loud to talk, so Baze just grabs his free hand and gently pulls him inside. When he closes the door the noise subsides and Chirrut lets out a deep sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so late in the evening, but could I crash here for an hour or two and finish my work?" he asks, and he sounds exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes and wrinkles in the corners of his mouth that Baze never saw before. "It's too loud at my place, I just can't hear anything over this goddamn..." he pauses and takes a calming breath. "Sorry. Just - it's quieter here. And I know it's Saturday, but really I need to finish grading these papers, I should have done them by Friday, but..."

"It's fine," Baze interrupts, because he doesn't care. "Can you make it to the couch on your own? Make yourself comfortable and I'll get you some tea..." He trails off under Chirrut's stare. Somehow it's working even though Chirrut is blind.

"You don't have to do this," Chirrut says tersely, like he was expecting something else.

"Tea? I can - if you prefer a coffee..."

"Don't play stupid, you know what I mean." Chirrut sighs again, and, to Baze's relief, averts his stare. "You don't have to let me stay or do any of this."

"Yeah," Baze says, and suddenly he's irritated too. "But I'm doing it anyway. You want to stay here or not?"

"I - yes, I want to."

"Good," Baze mutters, even though he isn't sure if that's indeed the best word for this situation.

He leaves it though and performs a strategic retreat to the kitchen. When he gets back with tea and some biscuits, Chirrut is already leaning over his laptop with headphones on. After a moment of deliberation Baze carefully nudges him on the shoulder.

"Tea and biscuits, to your left," he says simply. Chirrut raises his head and offers him a tired but wide smile.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now get back to your super important thing, whatever it is you're doing," he says in his grouchiest voice. Chirrut's smile grows even cuter at that and Baze spends a few minutes how it is even possible. He doesn't come to any conclusion, but it's just as well.

The night progresses more or less uneventful after that. The music keeps blaring, Bodhi keeps announcing that he's the pilot, and Chirrut keeps working on his papers. Baze glances at him from time to time at first over his book, but Chirrut and his laptop fit in his living room so well that after a while Baze stops paying attention. As if it's a normal thing for Chirrut to sit on his couch, sip tea, and grade papers.

Which would be wonderful, actually. Before he can check himself, Baze is making plans and formulating proposals - not even in any romantic sense, more along the lines of _If you need a - uh - a quiet place to work again, you can - I mean, you know where I live..._

He doesn't get to voice his offer though, because his train of thought is interrupted by a sudden snore.

Chirrut sits on his couch with his head bowed, the headphones almost falling away, and he snores despite the reader still going on, and the music still ringing loud and clear. He looks like he is just about to flop off of the couch to the floor without waking up, just like babies do. It's oddly endearing.

Unsure what to do, Baze checks his phone for time. It's one in the morning, and the party doesn't sound like it's wrapping up. He could leave Chirrut be, he thinks, watching the headphones slide down, let him doze off here. If he wakes him up, Chirrut probably won't be able to fall asleep again with all this noise. But if he doesn't wake him - well, it has potential to become so awkward that Baze feels his cheeks colour up just at the prospect. Then suddenly Chirrut snores again, loudly, and that sort of decides it. Baze tiptoes to his bedroom and brings a blanket, then he sneaks the headphones away like a ninja in a superhero movie, and then carefully, very carefully throws the blanket over Chirrut's shoulders.

To Baze's utmost relief, Chirrut snores throughout the whole process. He tugs at the blanket unconsciously to wrap himself, and Baze smiles. It would be indecent to wake Chirrut up - leaving him here is the right choice. He'll explain it somehow in the morning, he thinks as he reaches to the switch to turn the lights off.

Despite the music and the shouting from the corridor, the surprised gasp is perfectly audible in the sudden darkness.

"Baze?" There's soft shuffling of the blanket and quiet clacking of the headphones, all sounds oddly loud. "What happened? Did I - oh damn, did I fall asleep?"

"Yeah," Baze mutters from his place at the door. He feels his gut tighten and his face heat up, and he needs a few seconds to realise that it's guilt. "I mean - you just dozed off, and you looked like, like you really needed your beauty sleep, so I..." he trails off. He was right, before - it's more awkward that it has any right to be.

"Sorry about that," Chirrut says, and Baze hears him get up and shuffle the blanket in his hands, probably folding it. He could turn the lights back on to see what Chirrut is doing, but he doesn't. "I shouldn't have bothered you today."

"No, it's all right," Baze says quickly, listening to the quiet sounds of Chirrut gathering his things. They're barely audible over the music, but they're there.

"Is it?" Chirrut asks, and suddenly the terse tone is back.

Baze freezes and his first instinct is to backpedal, because clearly he just said something wrong, even though he has no idea what it might be. He doesn't mind Chirrut sleeping on his couch - the opposite of that, actually - but he cannot make himself explain it like a grownup he supposedly is. But Chirrut just sighs, and it doesn't sound angry. Resigned, more like.

"Well, if you say so," Chirrut mutters, and suddenly he's by the door too. He's holding his laptop and headphones in one hand, and placing the other one on Baze's forearm. "Thank you, then," he declares, and squeezes Baze's arm. And then he's out, leaving Baze blinking in the darkness and wondering what the hell just happened.

"I just fucked everything up, didn't I," he asks the friendship tree. It his, however, a rather rhetorical question.

5.

Apparently Baze fucked things up, royally so. It seems that Chirrut disappeared into thin air: he doesn't show in the hall or in the park, and he doesn't attend the service. More than one time Baze entertains the thought of just knocking at Chirrut's door and asking what's happened and how he can fix things up, but he knows deep down that he's never going to do this. The speeches he painstakingly crafts in his head never come out of his mouth right, and he'd just stand on the threshold and make an idiot out of himself. Besides, the students are staring at him when they think he doesn't see them, but they avoid him like a plague. It isn't encouraging, to say the least.

It's been almost two weeks, but it feels much longer - long enough that Baze almost stops listening to the footsteps in the hall and looking around for the familiar figure in the park. His emotional rants directed at the friendship tree are shorter now, too. But he still misses Chirrut much more than he thinks he should, and as the days pass, he resigns himself to it.

He almost falls off his armchair one evening when he hears quick, impatient knocking at his door.

"It's you," he says, and Chirrut smiles at him like nothing happened. He has a paper bag in his hands, and no cane. Before Baze thinks of it, he takes a step back to let Chirrut in. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I just thought I'll come by," Chirrut says, and his tone is very light and casual, like he puts a conscious effort to make it so. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"Oh no," Baze replies in the dullest monotone he can muster. He doesn't think he's doing a good job with it. "Feels like eternity."

"It does," Chirrut agrees, and then he grins widely like it was the best joke he ever heard. "I was out of town," he says, walking over to the couch without Baze's invitation. He clearly knows the layout of Baze's apartment well enough by know, Baze notices absent-mindedly. "For a conference. I brought you a souvenir."

"A conference," Baze repeats, as he walks over and accepts the paper bag. He feels like an utter moron right now. Probably even high school kids with a crush don't act as stupidly as he did. "That's - something. Did you wipe the floor with all the other participants?"

"It's not exactly a battle to be won." Chirrut's grin turns a little evil at that. "But, to be fair, I completely did. Come on, open the bag," he adds hastily, and his smile drops a little. He sounds nervous - and that's a new one. So far Chirrut was always calm and controlled, but now he's nervous about a souvenir.

"It's..." Baze mutters, as he opens the bag. It's a potted plant - a small friendship tree, similar to the one he already has, but with smaller, striped leaves. He takes it out the bag and examines closely. It's healthy and in decent condition, but it could use better soil and a nice, partially shaded place to grow. Just like his living room. "It's adorable," he says finally, and that's true, but it's so much more than that. "You didn't have to."

"I absolutely did." Chirrut nods solemnly to emphasise the absurdly serious tone of his voice. "It was so lonely and unloved out there, and I just needed to get it to someone who could nurture it. It practically screamed for help, and I knew you would care for it." It's all said for giggles - Baze can tell as much from the tone and from the smile on Chirrut's face - but there's more to it. As if Chirrut was talking about something else entirely.

"I'm not that great with plants," he hedges, just to be safe. "But I'm going to take care of this little fellow. Thank you," he adds belatedly.

Chirrut doesn't seem to mind; he listens intently to Baze's ministrations with the new plant, and he agrees to stay for tea. Any nervousness he might have shown before disappears as he tells Baze a number of anecdotes from the conference, mimicking the voices. Baze has very vague idea about the discussed topics, but the stories are funny nevertheless, so he laughs and laughs, and stops berating himself about his foolish behaviour over last two weeks. The evening is absolutely, perfectly nice.

"And what were you doing when I was away?" Chirrut asks suddenly. It's a totally normal question, but it still makes Baze choke on the last sip of his tea.

"I was, uh, you know. The usual boring stuff," Baze mutters intelligently. He scrambles for something better to say, but as always, nothing comes to mind. Well, nothing except _I was wallowing in self-pity because I thought you didn't like me anymore,_ but he can't say that aloud. He may be pining like a thirteen-year-old, but has still some remains of dignity left. "Hanging in here, walking around the park..." Baze trails off, realising that he mentions all the places where they usually meet. He hopes that it sounds creepy only in his own head, because he knows he was waiting for Chirrut to appear. "As I said, nothing to write home about."

"Boring stuff, you say," Chirrut says, and he smiles, like it's the best news he could hear. "Then I guess you would be up to something exciting, then? For a change?"

"Sure. I - yes. Of course," Baze blurts out, even though he has the feeling it's the worst idea. Chirrut nods, and he doesn't provide any details about the exciting activities.

"Great. I'll pick you up tomorrow, then? Around six?" Chirrut stands up, still grinning. Baze feels his stomach swoop. It's all more ominous that it has any right to be.

"Yes," he mutters, "I'll be waiting."

Of course he will.

+1

"This isn't a date," Baze explains to his friendship trees - the big one and the small one - as he tries to do something sensible with his hair. For the fifth time. "If it was, he'd say so, wouldn't he? It's a - a friendly outing." He could gather his hair in a ponytail, but it would look like he was going to work, or braid it, but it would look idiotic. He leaves the hair as it is and starts to pick at his cuffs.

He knows it doesn't matter - he already met Chirrut when he was wearing his work clothes and his ugly sweatpants, and Chirrut can't see him either way. But he's nervous and he has no idea what to expect, and fussing over his shirt is better than fussing over the fact that he has no idea how to act when Chirrut arrives. He's so focused on it that he almost rips off a cuff button when Chirrut finally knocks at his door.

That's when the first warning bell starts jingling in his head. Chirrut waits at the door looking unusually elegant, like he is headed to an opera at least. When he smiles at Baze, it's different too.

"Shall we?" he asks before Baze can do anything stupid, like stammer a compliment or shut the door in his face and thus cancel the friendly outing.

"Sure," he says and closes his door. For the few minutes that they spend in the hall and on the staircase, he runs an internal debate, trying to decide if maybe this is a date, after all. He could ask Chirrut, but it would take much more guts than he has.

"Come on, this way," Chirrut urges as soon as they leave the building.

Baze turns left as requested, but suddenly there is a touch on his forearm; Chirrut grabs him and tugs him lightly, so they fall in step. This is new - Chirrut never asked him for guidance before and Baze doubts he needs it now - and it's much more exciting than it probably should.

"Hmmm, it's nice," Chirrut comments, and Baze can see his grin grow even wider. He doesn't elaborate, but judging from his grip at Baze's forearm he isn't talking about the weather or the children playing tag on the grass patch nearby.

Baze feels his own heart racing, from nerves as much as from excitement. He wonders if Chirrut can feel his pulse speeding up. Suddenly it is too much and he wants to pull away and run back to the safe space of his home. But he takes a steadying breath and walks on.

"You are nice," he says, aiming for a neutral tone. "Dragging me with you to - wherever we're headed."

"The Summer Gardens," Chirrut says, and Baze barely stifles a relieved sigh. His jeans and plaid shirt won't stand out in a park.

"That's - cool, great, I mean - it's been a while since I've been there."

"Yeah, I guessed," Chirrut mutters, and Baze has no idea what it means. "You're going to like it though."

"You seem awfully sure of yourself," Baze says, and Chirrut laughs at that. It's not like he has no reason to be sure of himself, Baze muses. Chirrut's smart and funny, and handsome, and -

"You'll see," Chirrut says and nudges Baze's flank. "But if you don't like it, I'll let you choose where we go next."

Next, huh. Now that's an encouraging message if Baze ever heard one.

"Like I said," Baze grumbles, trying and failing to hide his own smile. This must be a date, then. "You're awfully sure of yourself."

The Summer Gardens are crowded, which surprises Baze - at least until he sees the posters hanging around. There is a concert of a guitar band that is just about to begin; people are milling around the scene and the makeshift dance floor. The lanterns and ribbons hanging everywhere, and the smell of spun sugar wafting from the booths put everyone in a festive mood.

"I didn't know we're going to a party," Baze says when the musics start to introduce themselves and the first song starts. "I'd dress up to the occasion."

"What a relief that we're not at a party then." Chirrut grins and tugs him towards the booths. "We're here to eat apples in caramel and lurk in the shadows. Besides," he adds pensively after he buys two apples in caramel and hands one to Baze, "I bet that you would be of no use at a party at all. You can't dance, can you," he mutters, somehow avoiding choking on the apple.

"Not at all," Baze agrees in between the bites. He should be relieved that there won't be any dancing; even if normally he doesn't move like he has two left feet, Chirrut's proximity doesn't add to his grace. And yet, he cannot stifle this little tinge of disappointment. Especially now, when the guitars play a nice rendition of one of his favourite ballads.

"Thought so." Chirrut lifts his head towards Baze. "Lucky for you, my friend, I am an amazing dancer."

"That so?" Baze manages. Suddenly his voice doesn't obey him - he sounds like he has no air left in his lungs. He believes Chirrut with no hesitation: the man moves with such an easy grace that it's almost dancing in itself. Chirrut reaches out and grabs his hands; his grin is so wide that it threatens to split his face in two.

"Yes. And you get to hold my hands and experience these captivating moves from up close."

Chirrut's dancing moves are definitely a thing to behold, though not necessarily in a positive sense. He holds Baze's hands and swings them left and right, like preschool children do sometimes. The rest of his body moves totally independently from his hands, and from the music for that matter. It's awful, and Baze wants to pull him close and force him to a slow dance, if only to stop this disaster.

"Pretty amazing, huh?" Chirrut smirks, after Baze lets out a suffering huff.

"Well, at least you don't step on my toes," Baze grumbles, but he squeezes Chirrut's hand to make clear that he's just kidding.

"I can do that," Chirrut says, lets go of his hands and takes a sudden step forward.

They're very close now, and Baze feels his face flush. He hovers for a moment and then touches Chirrut's shoulders, unsure what else he can do with his hands. Chirrut smiles and loops his hands behind Baze's back. Suddenly his movements regain their usual grace: there is no wild swinging to and fro anymore.

They do little more than gentle swaying and shuffling their feet - Chirrut makes a point of nudging Baze's toes from time to time though. Somehow they got even closer and when the music draws to a close, Chirrut rests his head on Baze's shoulder. His smile is sweet rather than wide and wild now, but to Baze it's even better.

"So what's the verdict?" Chirrut asks when they walk back, leaving behind them the warm glow of the lanterns and the echoes of the applause for the guitar band. "Did you like it?"

"Yes," Baze says and ducks his head. He can't bother with how immature it must look; he feels certain that Chirrut wouldn't judge him even if he could see. "I liked it very much. Especially the apples," he adds after a moment.

"The apples, huh? I was thinking of an actual concert next time, but maybe we should just go to a grocery store instead." Despite his puffing up, Chirrut is smiling, and there's this new edge in his smile again. In the dim light of the evening it looks like triumph. It doesn't disappear throughout their way home, while they discuss the endless possibilities of spending an evening in a grocery store, relishing in the absurd.

Baze only stops laughing when he realises that they're back in their hall, facing Chirrut's door. He knows he should say something, thank Chirrut for the evening, but he has no idea how to voice his thoughts. His words fail him, just as they always do.

Chirrut must sense his doubts, because he quiets too. He lifts his face in Baze's direction and his expression softens.

"It's your cue," he stage-whispers, his smile fond. "You may now thank me for the evening, maybe even try and kiss me, if you're daring enough." He must hear the nervous inhale Baze takes, because he winks, and it's just as if he could actually see Baze and his terrible blush. "Or, you could come in and stay," he drawls after a moment. "For the tea."

He opens his door and Baze peeks inside. It's dark in there, obviously, but in the light of the streetlights he can see the dark silhouette of the lavender bush he gave Chirrut for his birthday. The familiar shape makes his knees unfreeze, and his voice return to his throat.

"Yes," he whispers, and lets Chirrut tug him inside. "I think I'll stay."


End file.
